Then came the fall of our junior year—his last season, my second-to-last.
He looked at the camera. He smiled his golden smile. “God. My family. And all the fans who never gave up on me.”
Dallas didn’t become a saint. He still loved the roar of the crowd. He got drafted in the fourth round—lower than projected, because of the knee. And when he moved to a new city, he didn’t take a supermodel or an agent. He took a girl who knew how to tape an ankle and how to see a soul.
“You’re always going to go to the script, Dallas,” I said. “I’m not in your script. I’m in the fine print.”
Not me. Not even a “trainer.” I was erased.